


Little things

by CNS



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers - Generation one, Transformers - MTMTE
Genre: Camaraderie, Comfort, M/M, Relaxation, future pairing, memory blocks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CNS/pseuds/CNS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots and drabbles that couldn't be posted by themselves</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tips and results

**Author's Note:**

> This was a response to a prompt I received, based on a pairing I enjoy tremendously for reasons unknown.

He was CMO for the Decepticons. The Nemesis, anyway. As he was the only medic. Shockwave was the Chief Science Officer. So technically, they should have been equals. There was a but in there. And not the spelling Knockout preferred. The but was that Shockwave was also Megatron's FAVOURITE. Because who doesn't love a one-eyed, psychotic freak of nature? Nevertheless, there was appeal to him. That was all it really took to get Knockout to try and seduce to someone to his berth.

A plan which was soured by having to work with RATCHET. Because come on! Shouldn't Knockout be able to help? He was younger, better looking, most certainly better maintained, and his servos were probably steadier. He could do anything Ratchet could, right? Or that other medic everyone had talked about for awhile, Pharma or whatever it was. So he swayed his hips as much as possibly in Shockwave's periphery, or brushed against him. The only thing that happened that was unusual was Ratchet not only thanking him for something, but also muttering a quick tip to him.

Why on Cybertron would hip swinging and the like not work on a science mech? Knockout was one and knew he'd be affected! But he had to admit he probably wasn't as deeply devoted as Shockwave was. So even after Ratchet's disastrous escape and their being entirely stuck with the progress of the synth-en, Knockout attempted to try and catch Shockwave's less professional attentions. Leaving cubes for him, tidying and labeling what the scientist didn't, making sure he recharged.... It was maddening, but when Shockwave looked at him appraisingly and flatly requested a personal check up in his quarters for reasons of guaranteed privacy, Knockout makes a note to not target Ratchet in their next fight, because not only is he going to get some, he might also be discovering he likes Shockwave with the same intensity he liked Breakdown. Now to see how much he'd be allowed to explore....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not having seen Predacons Rising yet (I am somewhat apprehensive about it), I am going off the idea that somehow, Knockout would form a flawless, logical argument for why Shockwave should join the Autobots so that they can continue to frag and who knows what else.


	2. Servos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimlock is upset, and tries to remember something.

Think, remember.... Muscle past the memories of screaming and slippery energon and scalpels and needles and that _screaming_. Reach, nearly grasp... Red servos...? Blocked. The Dinobot gave a frustrated roar and slammed his fist down on his own knee, having been told already that the Weak Anthropic Principle couldn't be smashed because it was 'frah-gyle'. At least, that was what the mech with only half a head said. The bomb had told him that it could be easily broken. The loud jet said that meant they'd be stuck in space and starve to death. But it was hard to remember such rules when he woke from a bad memory and instinctively reached for the memory of something he inexplicably knew would help, only to have that security denied. His ruby visor glinted as his gaze bore holes into the floor, and he snarled quietly as he tried again. Red servos, yes, but where was the rest of this mystery mech? Why did the servos mean good things? When he roared in frustration again, he heard footsteps, then the door to the engine room eased open and... Ah. Leader one.

Something about that rankled, as if the leader should not be the leader, but part of his processor insisted that this mech was allowed to be because he had a face mask like.... someone. Someone not Grimlock. The leader one said some things to Grimlock, but the large Autobot couldn't seem to connect meaning to the sounds, and he growled lowly. The leader one raised his servos placatingly, but didn't he understand? It wasn't _him_ it was _Grimlock_. His proc- prossi- mind. "Me Grimlock," he huffed, the only words that he could always string together and say, no matter how difficult his mind made anything else. The small leader said something with his name, and Grimlock peered at him. Maybe it was about the rules? But he hadn't damaged the ship. Those servos were waving again, and Grimlock had a brief flash of fragmented memory. Red servos petting his head in alt mode, calming him from something. Standing, he transformed, possibly alarming the mech, then thrust his head against the smaller mech's chest. "Me Grimlock," he rumbled, then struggled for the next word. "Want..." he said slowly, enunciating clearly and focusing intently. "Pets..." As if his intense focus activated a switch, the block on understanding cleared up for now, and Grimlock understood Krok's murmured words that it was okay, and whatever was frustrating him to try and remember would come to him, so long as he was patient. The Dinobot rumbled and huffed quietly, and laid down. The little leader could talk all he liked as long as he kept up the stroking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After reading a bunch of fics with Grimlock, I had to draw him. And then I had to write something with him.


	3. Fragments

"Hello. H-Heeeeello-o-o. Helllooooo-o-o-ooooo...." The word kept repeating, static ridden and stuttering as some form of glitch kept it from sounding normal more than once in awhile. He could feel the phantom touch of cables plugged into him, had a vague memory of something rooting around in his processor as he thrashed against bindings, changing who he was and breaking him. Red servos. Those were good. But the phantom touch of red servos on his plating in comforting motions was outnumbered by the phantom cables and restraints. He couldn't remember the details of the room, but there was something... A light? A light. Above him. A purple light, like the badges his herd wore. Those badges equalled bad things, something told him, but it warred with confusion and new sets of memories. These badges were attached to his herd. They were attached to mechs who took care of him as he struggled through numerous foggy patches where all he could remember were the things he'd learned from Clemency and onward. Frustratingly, his moments of clarity came on the edges of exhausted recharge, so even if he could have fought his vocalizer into saying what he wanted to say, he would likely fall asleep before getting past the first two words. He twitched as he remembered exploding out of the coffin he couldn't remember being put into, and how he had fought and been fought, borne to the ground and forced to stay there.

He could remember smelling fear on his herd, but it melted away and they relaxed, which made him happy. His herd should not fear him. He remembered an angry shout for someone to get out of a medbay, and it was the bot with red servos, but the rest was shadowed and when he reached for it, it shattered and he was left in hazy unawareness again. But he knew he was safe. He had come into the medbay and Spinny was here. Spinny not bother Grimlock. Spinny protect Grimlock if fight happen. The Dinobot settled, arms draped over his legs and head tilted back as he fell into recharge, exhausted by the mental battles he engaged in every day, now. In the background, Spinister quietly threatened a berth to be silent so it wouldn't disturb Grimlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, The Device Has Been Modified v2 by Victims of Science inspired this.


	4. Caretaker

Spinister was a bit of a strange mech, which was freely admitted to (and elaborated on) by most mechs who knew him. Special, messed up, freaky in the head, a whacko, a moron... All kinds of less than complimentary labels had been thrown at the mech, but among them there were some good ones if you did some digging. Talented surgeon, good fighter, a good improviser, a good captain-wrangler.... But the title he was most fond of, and forgot the most, was 'caretaker'. In a very vague way, Spinister could sometimes remember being a parent to a kid he had caught trying to steal from his small business. The one thing he always remembered was the stories. With waving arms and grand servo gestures, he would illustrate his points as he'd tell the wide-eyed sparkling tales of Golden Age detectives solving baffling cases, of brave explorers setting pede where no Cybertronian had gone before and getting Pit for it, among many others.

He remembered the tunes he would hum to calm them down, though the words were lost to his damaged mind. He remembered comforting when needed and guiding as necessary. In short, he remembered how to be a caretaker, even if he couldn't always remember he had been one, and could never quite remember the kid's name. If he were entirely honest with himself, he missed looking after someone like that. Sure, he looked after Krok and Crankcase and Misfire, and used to take care of Flywheels but now took care of Fulcrum, but it wasn't the same way. He was their medic, and a fellow member of the unit. They were a family. But none of them required TLC of any sort. That was what Spinister quietly yearned to give even as the door would move funny or the lights would flicker suspiciously at him and he'd have to suppress the urge to shoot them.

And so that was how Fulcrum, Grimlock's designated caretaker, would find Grimlock waking from a bad recharge cycle with memories of something painful, only to see Spinister had somehow reached him first to pet his large metallic dinosaur head and hum to the Dinobot until he fell back into recharge. And it was why Spinister would sometimes be found stuck between the wall and Grimlock, enthusiastically telling him stories from times before the war. Fulcrum would quietly leave, and ask Krok to make sure they were left alone for a bit.

Of course, all the caretaker attention did not mean that Spinister helped with Grimlock's baths. No, quite the contrary. He'd just sit and stare, and occasionally say something all shades of unhelpful.


	5. Jogging

Camping out in a forest to keep an eye on whatever it was the Constructicons were setting up was not Sunstreaker's idea of a good time. At all. There was so much horrible detritus that seemed determined to get on and under his plating and wedged up between his wires in the most irritating ways possible. Of course, he could take pleasure in Tracks freaking out and wailing when Sunstreaker 'accidentally' sprayed him with mud on their way up to their campsite, but it didn't do much to combat all the rampant filth. How had they, the two most image-conscious mechs on the Ark, wound up stuck with Hound of all mechs for this? He practically _lived_ to get dirty! Sunstreaker and Tracks watched him in a shared morbid fascination whenever he did something that got extra, entirely unnecessary, muck on him, and didn't seem to think it was a problem at all. He'd even tried a _mud. bath._ He was clearly insane and needed professional help, but Smokescreen didn't seem to think he was. He spouted things about having a vast appreciation for nature and being outdoorsy and blah blah blah, but outdoorsy was something entirely different on Cybertron! At the most, you'd come back inside with a few scuff marks!

Tracks was the current sentry, the mech grumbling darkly to himself and complaining over a comm line with that human he liked so much, while Sunstreaker sat moodily looking at his datapad. The seeping mud and grit kept him balanced on the knife's edge of artistic inspiration and blankness. And really, it would have gone on like that if Hound hadn't offered a (surprisingly clean) servo to the artist. "Come on, Sunstreaker, take a break from that for a sec."  
"What for?" he asked warily. One never knew with Hound.  
"You haven't done a thing on it for the past half hour. Join me on my morning jog."  
"Your what?" he inquired, voice flat enough to put Soundwave to shame.  
"Morning jog," Hound repeated. "It might clear up your head, and it's good to stretch your legs when you can't stretch your wheels." Sunstreaker debated. Sit here, in close proximity to Tracks and his incessant _glitching_ over the comm about their work conditions, or go with Hound for a jog thing. Both were equally messy, but one promised a blessed lack of Tracks.  
"Fine." Signing heavily, Sunstreaker tucked away his datapad and got up, grumbling at the wet earth clinging to him, and Hound offered him a cloth to clean the worst of it off. How... oddly considerate. But then again, this was Hound, and he was painfully considerate to even the worst glitchheads on the ship.

The jog turned out to be surprisingly relaxing, and Sunstreaker could even shove his pride away long enough to admit to liking it a little. Hound had smiled warmly and given him an open invitation to join him any morning at six for a morning jog within driving distance of the Ark. When they got back to the campsite, they arrived just in time for Tracks to give away their position with a particularly loud complaint, and Sunstreaker got to bash some Decepticon heads and rip out a bit of wiring. Mmm.... Jogs were clearly a good thing if they helped him maintain this balance of relaxed and alert in a battle. It also seemed to freak his enemies out more, which was a nice cluster of bonus points on his tally sheet.


	6. Scavengers - Grimlock

Grimlock's mind was not a good place to be. For most, the mind is a refuge; a place where you can hide away from life's harsher realities, or somewhere to gestate an idea. For the Dinobot, it was the stage of the world's most pitiful show of uncertainty and unease. Memories are not all crystal clear for an organic, but an average Cybertronian can recall ninety-five percent of their memories with ninety percent accuracy. So any recollection was still fairly detailed. Especially if a mnemosurgeon was tagging along. With his memories though, they were a horrific mess. Not through disorganization, but through being ninety-nine point five percent obscured before his awakening with all those circuit speeders. They wavered like hazy mirages at best from a distance, affording him glimpses of what they might hold, but the closer he got, the blurrier they became until they started dancing away just out of reach. If it was a good memory, anyway. Bad memories seemed almost as if they were malicious entities, delighting in his avoidance of them and chasing him to try and make him suffer more with what they contained. His memories after awakening were fuzzy around the edges, but he could recall them. What was crystal clear though was that these mechs were his now. He had the sense that he was supposed to lead a group, but until he remembered them, he would wait.

As it was, his current group was the Bomb, the Pilot, the Stupid-Jet, Spinny, and the Leader. The Bomb, Fulcrum, had made the DJD go away, and he was nice to Grimlock and gave him treats. The Pilot, Crankcase, was grumpy and spoke meanly most of the time, but when everyone else was in recharge, he would come and pet Grimlock and quietly tell him battle stories. Grimlock liked stories. And he had the feeling that the Pilot was very like someone he had known. But a scent was missing. Spinny, Spinister, would have been called medic, but Grimlock had the nagging feeling that there was someone very important who already had that title. So Spinny was Spinny. He was fun, in a way. He aimed his gun at a lot of things, and asked the Leader if he could shoot them, but he fixes everyone up. He also told adventurous stories with his servos and changes in his voice. Stupid-Jet talked to much for him to make sense of most of what he said, but he too was nice and petted Grimlock.

And then there was the leader. He was quiet and watched over all of them carefully, keeping them together and making sure they were alright. He liked the Leader, Krok. Perhaps he liked Grimlock too, for he would quietly sit with Grimlock sometimes, leaning against him and absently petting his neck. Every now and then he would tell stories about finding things. Grimlock liked Krok's stories maybe a little more than Spinny and Pilot's. Because the Leader's stories all had happy endings. All of them. And this strange little herd were happy in every one. So perhaps he was missing something through not having his other memories. But in the moments of clarity he had, Grimlock knew he wouldn't give up the Scavengers for anything.

The Lost King by ZeeNovos


	7. Discovery

"Hey! Hey, loser!" Misfire hollered, servo to his mouth to amplify his voice. Not that he really needed it, as he had quite a vocalizer and set of speakers in him. Not that anyone would compliment him on this, as Krok's were far finer and his below tended to make you immediately snap into place. Partly because it wasn't used all that often.  
"What?" Fulcrum called back, his voice a lot softer, despite being around the same volume.  
"Ya gotta see this!"  
"I'm busy, Misfire."  
"No really! Grimsie might like it!" Fulcrum groaned.  
"Just tell me what it is, I'm trying to collect some gyros over here!"  
"You gotta see it!" was the insistent response. Grumbling, because mild mannered technician-turned-bombs do not growl, Fulcrum dumped the bodies he was harvesting gyros from for Spinister, memorized the spot, then trekked over to Misfire.  
"Wh- Oh." On the ground in front of them was your standard Decepticon corpse. Misfire had someone managed to activate this one's subspace, which was miraculously still active, and rummage around in it. There were some plasma cartridges from an old fashioned handgun, with glyphs carved on them, as well as a datapad. But the really interesting things were three cubes of energon, and a small box of treats. Treats shaped like faction insignias. Huh. "This is very good, Misfire, but don't you think you should be showing Krok-"  
"Not that stuff, loser! This!" Misfire thrust something into Fulcrum's servos, and when he was able to examine it he discovered it was a worn... doll....? "Apparently, the race that lived on this planet were mechanical like us, so the doll shouldn't tear real easy. We can give it to Grimsie! What do you think?" The jet's wings were twitching and bobbing with excitement, and he sported his usual wide grin. Fulcrum didn't have the spark to shoot that happiness down, so he just nodded.  
"I'm... sure Grimlock will love it." Before he inevitably wound up destroying it. But it was the thought that counted, right? At least the rest of Misfire's discovery could be put to good use.


	8. Got what you wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scavengers reach Cybertron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character death. Because angst just had to write itself out and result in two survivors.

Radio waves were a somewhat strange thing. The signals bounced around planetside, or up into space to satellites.... Or sometimes they were just sent straight out into the dark, through purpose, misdirection, or accident. The mingling of these lonely things was a soft static whenever one was paying attention, but occasionally there were interesting things. Snippets of audio files that had long been lost, commands, ads, speeches... What had always got them crowded around their resident surgeon was the songs. It was almost uncanny, how he was on duty whenever one of them made their way out to the Weak Anthropic Principle through the vastness of space. Spinister recorded every single one, and often played them on quiet nights when they needed something to lull them to recharge but were convinced all their fellows were powered down. There was one particular song, which had a line looping so cruelly in Krok's head.

They had made it back to Cybertron, as they had always known they would. But things had gone so horribly wrong. Nobody wanted the DJD to visit, so Krok and his beloved Scavengers were hauled away for execution while Grimlock was taken to be 'fixed', the Dinobot trying to follow the crew even as Autobots muttered angry words at how the Decepticons must have broken and trained him through horrendous means. But despite everything he's heard, Krok had always known two things. With Autobots, you get a trial. With Decepticons, you don't. Except everything had been turned around and made so horribly wrong. The Autobots were offering no trial, no chance for him to save his crew, his team, from a return to the Well. Misfire had babbled even more rapidly than usual, panic in his tone as he waited for Krok, his captain, their tactician, to suddenly make it all alright. The Autobots put a muzzle on him when they became fed up (which didn't take long. A fact that would have made Krok smile if not for how serious the situation was). Spinister was confused and kept asking Krok why they weren't being allowed to see Cybertron, why they had to go inside immediately. But what was most spark wrenching was his question of what they had done wrong to be sent to jail. Aside from piss off the Decepticon Justice Division. Crankcase seemed to be shell shocked, his expression blank as they were prodded along. It was Fulcrum that was really concerning Krok though. For all of a shutter of an optic he had been terrified. And then he had become perfectly calm and blank, reaching up to run his servos soothingly over one of Misfire's madly twitching wings, in an automatic 'everything will be alright' gesture. Except it wouldn't.

Krok wasn't even allowed to die with his crew, he found out to his horror. He should have rejoiced at finally finding his unit. Instead, he only felt hollow and horrified. They had stood up for him and thus saved him from deactivation. But they had labelled his Scavengers as incidental to his return. Throw-aways. Cannon-fodder. Expendable. Spinister, dear Spinister, had seemed to snap out of his hazy world long enough to understand Krok would survive, and his optics tilted in a smile. "We'll wait for you, Captain," he said, ignoring the mocking laughter from the unit Decepticon High Command had assigned to Krok. The unit he had so tirelessly searched for. Crankcase inclined his head slightly when Krok looked at him helplessly. "See you. Don't be a pain in my neck cables again too soon." Misfire was panicking, and Fulcrum had entirely shut down by now. Krok whirled to the Autobots judging them, ignoring his unit's attempts to pull him away.  
"Take my life instead. Spare theirs." His voice rang out in the almost-silence. His team, who were supposed to back him up, started laughing, then dragged him away despite his struggles, even as the Autobots continued as if he hasn't said anything. Misfire shut down as the gunners came out, and Spinister narrowed his optics in that way he did where he thought something was looking at him funny. In all likelihood, it was the glare of their sun's shine on the armour of the mechs who were there to murder them. Krok watched all of them stumble back, shot after shot striking them as someone screamed against it. Who was it? Krok wanted to know who else could possibly care for them... And then he realized it was himself yelling and screaming for it to stop, for his crew to survive. When they fell and did not rise, Krok fell silent, allowing himself to be dragged around as his old unit laughed boisterously about how they had their genius tactician and commander back, and didn't have to deal with their temporary one. They also said that the 'losers' had been good for bringing Krok back, if nothing else.

Later, when Krok sat alone in the cramped quarters assigned to him, he went over every memory he had of the group. Every treasured moment, like Flywheels trying to convert Crankcase only for the group (minus Krok) to end up in a confusing whirl of wrestling and flailing limbs. In light of what had happened, Flywheels' death at Tesaurus's servos, terrifying though it had been, was probably a kinder fate than what Crankcase, Spinister, Fulcrum, and Misfire had suffered. He had failed his crew. For it was not as his old crew had put it. In truth, they had been incidental to him finding what most Decepticons daren't talk about. A family. And he would be damned if he let himself just exist in a world where things like this happened to good people. He would avoid starting a revolution if he could help it, but before he joined his family in the Well, he would at least try to change the world for the better. In the meantime, he would try to find Grimlock. Clicking on, unbidden but not stopped, a sound clip played from one of Spinister's cherished orphan signals.  
 _"So you, so you, so you got what you wanted.  
Did you get what you wanted... after all?"_


	9. Old acquaintance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please go easy on me. I haven't been able to read past issue 14 yet, but upon seeing two very compelling images, I was struck by a burning need to write this. From Swerve's view, for some inexplicable reason.

The thing about being a minibot was that you were ignored with annoying frequency. Or underestimated. Or cooed over as if you'd never progressed past your sparkling years. Some would find it surprising to know that there were more mechs than femmes who did that third thing. Why, Swerve could remember one time- Which wasn't actually what he was supposed to be talking about. He'd been asked to tell about something that had happened that had really, really concerned everyone. Brainstorm in particular seemed convinced that there was an elaborate mind control machine involved. Though he was less worried about who would fall victim to it than infuriated that he had not had a hand in making it and had not even seen it yet. Brainstorm was a dreadfully suspicious sort who should be avoided when possible, because the danger outweighed the entertainment value. Oh right, danger. Uh, the captain. New one, not the old one. Right. Well. Maybe he could convince them all to have a few more drinks and forget that he'd been close enough to hear almost the entire conversation that had changed the two mechs' interactions. Damn. No one was falling for it. How frustrating.

Was everyone sure they didn't want to hear a tale of love and woe and misaligned gears-? Oh wow, that nearly blew his audials out. Partly because Ratchet had actually _hit_ him, but okay! As soon as his audials stopped ringing! Oh hey, was that Rodimus calling...? Damn it he was in the back where Swerve hadn't seen before. And who actually cared that he was no longer captain? Ultra Magnus backed him up more than he backed Megatron. Alright fine he'd stop stalling and trying to weasel out of it. Though he had to wonder what a weasel was... OKAY DON'T RUSH! Primus, you'd think he was the only mech onboard with manners!

So Swerve held no little pride over how his bar was absolutely essential for the morale of the ship, even if no one even really paid attention to what Swerve himself said unless there was something they wanted out of him. Which was rarely, so often the minibot was essentially talking to himself and smiling or laughing at his own jokes, listening to fake laughter and pretending he actually fit in. On the night in question, his bar was as busy as usual, but Swerve wasn't really talking much when Magnus came in. That right there was a fine wall of mech, but most of the taller mechs were. It was kind of odd seeing Ultra Magnus in his bar, but he was too gleeful at the opportunity to try and see if he could try to get the stoic mech as a friend to think it too odd. At least, not until their new Captain walked in before Swerve could find an excuse to get out from behind the counter. Oh the silence was so sudden it was deafening, but the whispers that started up were enough to cause whiplash, really. It was also kind of hard not to want to cower on his suddenly lonely seeming island in the sea of uncertainty as that quietly shining silver wall advanced, miles of thick cables and sturdy wiring shifting in sync with hydraulics and gears to create a symphony of life that was purely Megatron. The cannon on his arm, shifting and making soft whirring and clicking sounds, did not help matters as Swerve's life flashed before his optics in shades of deceptively sweet lavender and violent indigo.

He sat, and things seemed to get worse. He just waited expectantly, eyebrow slowly inching upwards as Swerve stood there, paralyzed, wondering if he'd be braver if he were taller, like Skids maybe, or Ultra Magnus. Magnus was probably a better bet. Yes. A fortress of righteousness and terrifying disapproval. Yes that would at least render him able to face the slag-maker, who he had jokingly pretended to be when he had gone to board the _Lost Light_. A finely, yet somehow blocky, arched ridge slowly rose higher and higher over a murderous red optic at the prolonged silence. A soft, polite cough yanked Swerve's attention to- Primus bless Rung. A billion times. "Yeah Rung?" he had asked, his voice _maybe_ a little shaky.  
"Might I have another?"  
"Huh? Oh yeah!" He'd quickly provided Rung with another small, low charge shot before glancing at Megatron. That storm of a voice ordered one of his larger drinks, and after hastily providing, he'd slipped to Rung's other side to try and somehow avoid the new captain, who was too intimidating by way more than half.  
"I remember you," Rung had murmured in a soft, thoughtful voice, looking at Megatron.  
"I doubt very much that there are any who do not recognize me in some capacity," Megatron had replied with a smirk. Fangs. Primus be blessed for giving Swerve next to nothing of a neck. Otherwise Megatron probably would have torn it out with his teeth.  
"No, I doubt there are many," Rung had murmured. "However, I recall you from Maccadam's... You checked to ensure I was alright before you and your friend went and fought for me..."  
"Impactor."  
"I believe that is who it was, yes."  
"I believe I missed an introduction back then."  
"Indeed you did. As we are both fully aware of who you are, I suppose I shall introduce myself. I am Rung, the ship therapist."  
"I see." A pause. "I suppose you expect me to come for a session at some point."  
"If that would be agreeable, yes." Rung had smiled, and Megatron had shown those few looking at the right moment that his sincere smiles were scarier than the others.  
"Oh very agreeable... I quite wondered what had happened to the slender mech who had been laying spread before me all those vorns ago..." Rung certainly hadn't flushed, but Swerve had for him because what did that _mean_? What had happened at Maccadam's? And had Rung actually bedded Megatron? Because that must be something that took extreme ball bearings and would send Rung skyrocketing out the to top of Swerve's list of impressive mechs.

No, there hadn't been anything else as juicy. Though Rung had offered to let Megatron's session take place in his quarters... No, Swerve was not going to contemplate whether or not they were going to do unspeakable things rather than any actual work. And Brainstorm pointing out that it was physical work just made things worse. Swerve was now going to kick everyone out of his bar and have a couple of strong drinks himself, thank you very much good bye and good night. If only their scientists had created something useful like brain bleach rather than all those weird dud things they'd come out with.


	10. Bar conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You remembered me."

"You remembered me."

Megatron jerked a little, startled, and looked up at Rung. He'd sensed the approach of another Cybertronian, but EM fields were constantly brushing close and dancing away, as system sounds grew louder and faded. It was a bar, after all. He hadn't expected anyone to be approaching _him_. Autobot brand or no, he still had the charming, attractive titles of 'slag maker' and 'tyrant', among others. He was the monster in stories some species told their offspring of, and he could almost laugh at the disparity between his vision of the future back when he had been a miner with his head screwed on right, and now as a worn out mech who'd strayed so far away from the path he'd set out on. In front of him was the mech who'd inadvertently started it all, and had been attempting to walk him through his humble beginnings to help him understand where he'd gone wrong. "Hello, Rung."  
"Ah, yes, I do apologize. Hello. How has your evening been going?" Ah, how long had it been since anyone had just casually asked him such a question? Better yet, how long had it been since he hadn't held the questioner in suspicion?  
"Well enough for a retired harbinger of doom," he murmured, tossing back his shot of engex. "And yours?" he inquired, partially out of politeness and partially out of a genuine desire to know.  
"Oh, quite well, thank you."  
"Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, might I ask after your conversation starter?" To tell the truth, he was a little disappointed that Rung hadn't elaborated, but it wasn't his place to pry, really.  
"Oh, well.... You remembered me. Even when I had forgotten our encounter. And... I just wished to know why." The mass of living metal and mechanical internals that was Megatron almost seemed to... relax. As if he'd been expecting something else entirely. It made Rung curious as to what that could have been, but he left it alone.  
"I remember you, because you began the string of incidents that lead to my editing of my.... 'autobiography', as you called it. That's one of the reasons, anyway."  
"And the others?"  
"Your frame type is quite visually appealing, as is your face." Surprisingly, Megatron smiled. "And you were laid out before me in a pool of fuel," he added. "Quite a striking visual if I do say so myself. That, and the injustice that caused you to end up there, had my thoughts returning to you many times. It is either a pity, or a good thing, that I didn't learn your name until I met you again here, all these millennia later."  
"Perhaps," Rung agreed mildly, fingers interlaced on the table in front of him.  
"I should like to get to know you better," Megatron continued, starting the much older mech.  
"I beg your pardon?"  
"I have thought of you on and off for a very long time. I should like to get to know you better, and get to be known more as a person than a legend or icon." He smiled wryly. "After all, it would be a comfort to know at least one will mourn my passing when my Decepticon Justice Division come for me."  
"Why would they do that?"  
"Because they worship me and the Decepticon way, and I have betrayed it by being branded, and accepting the cause attached." Rung watched him quietly for a few moments, then spoke again.  
"Would you say the Autobots won?"  
"No. While I renounce claim over the Decepticons, they are not defeated, nor are they captured. They are killed, or they are doing what our species does so well; adapting to a new situation."  
"Do you think another war will begin?"  
"I think that unless the battle weary of both sides work together, and I mean all of the battle weary, we will never have peace again." He smiled ruefully at the mech across from him. "Quite a dark alternative to the future I desired for all of us."  
"Even those praised as the best of us trip and stumble, Megatron. What's important that no matter how much you stumbled and how close you got, you never fell down." Megatron eyed him for a little while, thoughtful, then raised a servo so Swerve knew to come over.  
"Can I order you a drink, doctor?"  
"Just Rung will do, Captain."  
"So will Megatron do for me."  
"Very well."  
"While we wait for Swerve to take notice, perhaps you could explain to me how you managed to maintain such an exceptionally sized collection of ship models through the war?" he asked, smiling a little wider at how both Rung's optics lit up behind his glasses, and Magnus and Rodimus's narrowed from their respective perches by the bar.


End file.
